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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222449">Ever-newer Waters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee'>dorbee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Dementia, Gen, Stangst, oops all i write is sad things!, to be more specific</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford's diagnosis is as straightforward as it is fatal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dipper Pines &amp; Mabel Pines, Ford Pines &amp; Stan Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>If he thinks hard enough, he can remember the exact day. November 3rd. He sees Ford stumbling around with his arms in front of him, gracelessly grasping at the walls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did ya finally go blind?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford grumbles. “I might as well have, I lost my glasses.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan grimaces, knowing damn well neither of them can see more than a couple of feet in front of them unassisted. “Well let me help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re pulling sheets off beds and digging through seat cushions when Stan happens to check the kitchen and notice the strangest thing: the milk’s sitting out on the counter. He goes to put it back only to find,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford!” The fridge door is still hanging open as he approaches with, “Your glasses.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s dumbfounded as to how he could’ve made such a mistake. Milk on the counter, glasses in the fridge. Was he losing his mind? “Stanley, give it to me straight.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs. “You slipped. No big deal. Just don’t make a habit of it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford nods. He’s unsettled, but he’s willing to set the matter aside. Soon he can hardly justify the overreaction.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he does start making a habit of it, the changes are so subtle Stan doesn’t notice. When he does notice, it’s easy to ignore. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He catches Ford staring blankly at a wall, a worn copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Childhood’s End</span>
  </em>
  <span> on page 160 in his hands. It’s as if he’s asleep with his eyes open. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Weren’t you doing some kind of specimen cataloging today?” Stan says as he approaches Ford from behind, triggering a flinch and sharp gasp from his brother.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes dart around the room before settling on Stan. “Well, I was. But now I’m not.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Immediately, Stan notes that it’s not even lunchtime. Ford’s notebook is turned to an empty page, his specimens barely touched. “You’re not usually done this early.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Today I am. Is it such a problem?” Ford snaps. At that, Stan flinches.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course it’s not a problem! Forgive me for checking in.” He storms out, with perhaps a pang of guilt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Weeks pass and Ford is recounting a tale of the multiverse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been running for hours at this point, and it’s times like this when you remember humans are endurance hunters.” He chuckles. “I finally find a small town on a mountain road, and there’s a sweet female selling pastries of the local variety. We’re talking, and then all of a sudden this… this…” he trails off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan motions expectantly. “Indescribable beast?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Not at all, very familiar. It was small, furry, pointy little ears. It walked up prim and proper, but it didn’t like me. It was… growling, it was growling, and its hackles were up—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan furrows his brow. “Like a dog?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford pauses. “…That’s what it was. A little dog.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan tries to laugh, and Ford smiles back, but there’s unspoken tension. There’s fear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Incidents like these gather. Ford asks for Stan’s assistance more and more often on his projects, and new ones start and stop by the minute. The Latin quips and phrases that once rolled off his tongue are few and far between, harder to grasp. It’s a change, but it’s not all too unexpected, no? They’d turned 87 this year—older than either of them had any right to be. Everything dulls with age, even the sharpest minds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But one night, Stan walks back from the bathroom to find Ford’s bunk empty and the door swung open, revealing freezing rain outside. His blood runs cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford!” He calls, still tugging on his jacket as he runs onto the deck. He nearly slips and is hit with a chill that wraps itself around his bones and pulls. Teeth gritted and arms wrapped around himself, he presses forward.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sees Ford’s silhouette first, taking unsteady steps near the stern. His terrified face comes into view moments later, and it isn’t long until he notices, </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley!” Ford cries as he runs barefoot into his brother’s arms. He’s only wearing a robe, and he’s soaked through. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell are you doing out here?” Stan asks before any pleasantries. Part of him wants to give Ford a firm strike across the jaw. The more loving and sane part of him feels him shaking like a leaf. He’s cold and he’s scared.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—I was looking for you, I woke up and, and you—you weren’t,” He continues, but his speech becomes little more than rambling. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, don’t worry, I’m here now, and…” he gulps. “Let’s just get you back inside, okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan holds Ford by his shoulders, guiding him through their home as if it’s unfamiliar territory. Stan makes a beeline for the closet, grabbing a towel and a change of clothes. Even dried and properly dressed, Ford’s shivering. Stan brings a blanket over his shoulders as they sit together on the bottom bunk.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So let’s start from the beginning. You woke up and you couldn’t find me, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford nods. “Yes, I… I woke up, and I knew I was in my bed, but I…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. Stan leans in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford sighs and looks to his brother, the pain wrenching his heart clear in his eyes. “Stanley, I had no idea where I was.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan blinks. “Whaddya mean?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew—I knew the top bunk. But I looked at the room and… it was completely unfamiliar. So I climbed down, and I looked for you—I knew you’d be on the bottom bunk—but you weren’t. You weren’t on the bottom bunk, and I started to panic. I covered up as fast as I could and I suppose I… headed out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s head sinks further and further into his hands as Ford explains the situation. When he looks back, he’s years older. “Ford, I’m really worried about you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford pulls the blanket tighter. “I’m worried about myself as well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They agree to change their course, heading for shore with no stops or interruptions and going straight to the nearest hospital. This far out from land, it takes a month. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Plenty can happen in a month.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next morning, Ford less wakes up and more creaks to life with a 102° fever. Stan knows it’s from that little trip into the storm, and normally he’d rub it in, but it would be cruel at a time like this. “How’re ya feeling?” He brings a new cool cloth to Ford’s head, who only closes his eyes and sighs. “…I’m stickin’ with ya, Sixer.” He takes Ford’s hand with a sad smile, and he can’t bring himself to let go. It’s the first time in years he’s fallen asleep standing up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford can hardly get out of bed for a week, and it’s another week until he’s in any shape to take over his half of duties on the ship. Stan’s swabbing the deck when he notices Ford’s been at the same length of rope for some time. “Something wrong?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks to Stan, to the rope, and back to Stan. “I’m having some trouble with this… confounded knot,” he mutters.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me see.” He takes the rope from Ford’s hand. In only a moment he assesses, “…This is just a double-stopper.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford blushes, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I can’t get it, and I don’t think staring at me will fix that,” he says, raising his voice. “So can you please help me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan feels like a real dip. “Yeah. Yeah, I—sorry.” It takes a few seconds at most to tie the familiar knot, even when he tries to slow himself down. He hands the rope back to Ford, who hesitates before taking it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even if he could tie knots, he has undeniably grown doddering in his convalescence. He started breaking plates, so Stan’s taken over the cooking. A few near falls and now his brother is never more than a few steps behind him. With no painful discussion, Stan takes over all duties that were once Ford’s, who merely follows.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They dock in Oregon after 28 days in limbo at sea. It would’ve been a shorter trip to Oahu, but Stan has a feeling it’ll be some time before Stan o’ War II leaves port again. That they’ll need to be closer to family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The woman administering the test is kind as can be, but it adds little levity to watching Ford desperately look at him for the answer to “what state are we in?” Or watching him fuck up drawing a clock in a way Stan hadn’t thought was possible. They both want to cry, they really do, but they’re stupid old men and they hold it all in, locked up tighter than Fort Knox.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Must I enter this blasted contraption after I made a fool of myself back there?” Ford bites his nails as he runs his eyes over the daunting CT scanner. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll take what, 15 minutes? In and out. You can do it.” Stan pats Ford on the back firmly enough to throw him off balance. Ford looks back with a nervous smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s perfectly quiet and still throughout the procedure, which Stan takes as proof in his favor. It was no big deal. Not much later, he realizes he’s dead wrong.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get away—Stanley!” Ford roughly shoves the attending nurse and stumbles into Stan, clutching his shirt. “Stanley, that awful machine—I can assure you these people are after my life.” He glares back at the nurse with violent venom.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan is stunned. “…Ford, that’s… you’re fine. It was just a CAT scan, you need to calm down—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You will not tell me to calm down! No, you will not. I was in there, I heard what I heard, I felt what I felt—” He clutches his head and groans. “Great Gods, it’s like I’m still trapped in there!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan doesn’t comment as the nurse steps out of the room and speaks to several other nurses. They make eye contact as she points back to the scene.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re alright, I’m here. No one’ll hurt you as long as I’m here.” Stan says, pulling Ford into an uncomfortable hug. He doesn’t relax—if anything, he tenses. It hurts Stan’s heart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A new nurse steps in with two cups: one filled with water, one holding a pill-and-a-half. He hasn’t even introduced the concept of taking them before,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, no no no, you expect me to fall for something so blatant?” He laughs, it’s unhinged. “You’ll have to try much harder to poison me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two more nurses enter close behind the first, who finally speaks. “These are just to help you sleep, okay? They’re completely safe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit!” Ford spits. Stan sighs and extends a hand to the nurse, who gets the idea and gives him the cup of pills.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you won’t listen to him, what about me, huh?” Stan says, bringing the cup a little closer. “It’s Ativan. It’s not poison.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks betrayed to his core. “Stanley, don’t tell me you’re buying into this scheme.” Stan keeps a stiff upper lip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t believe me, believe this.” Stan grabs the half-pill and swallows it dry. A moment of silence passes, and he shrugs. “I’m still standing. I’m still breathing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unorthodox, sure, but it gets to Ford’s sense of trust. He hesitates, and, with a shaking hand, takes the cup from Stan. The nurse offers the water cup, and Ford takes that too. Keeping a careful eye on Stan for any signs of poisoning, he swallows the pill. Within a few minutes, he’s easily coaxed into a wheelchair and brought to a not-so-private bed to recover. Once he’s snoring, Stan allows himself to cry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The results are unsurprising, but it’s necessary to have an exhaustive meeting about them. Even without a normal brain to compare it to, Stan can see Ford’s is not all there. The diagnosis is as straightforward as it is fatal. Dementia.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan has three hours alone to think of a way to break the news, and by the time Ford awakens, he’s come up empty. He stands, hands in his pockets, eyes meeting Ford’s a moment later.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I took that well,” he murmurs, wiping his tired eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan laughs, but it comes out quite sad. “Yeah, you could say that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford is wise enough. His gaze turns serious. “Stanley, what did they say? That is, uh, what were the results of my neurological testing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, he gets straight to the point. What a charming character he is that way! Stan gulps. “Well. You didn’t do great on the pen and paper test. And the pictures they took of your brain, well… those weren’t too great either. So—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have Alzheimer’s disease.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan laughs again—he does when he’s nervous. “They didn’t say it in as many words but I got the idea, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford clasps his hands and stares at the curtain in front of him. His mind is racing at many millions of miles per hour. Isn’t it so strange to receive a death sentence from your own body? How would he possibly handle losing what had always been so precious to him? Who would take care of Stanley?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re wondering, there’s no way in hell you’re getting rid of me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s attention snaps back to Stan. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, don’t expect me to let you go out in some kinda old people's home. It’s you and me to the end. I’ve cut myself a lotta slack but giving up on you now? That would make me a real shitheel of a brother.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford blinks a few times, then turns away. “I’m unsure if it would be right to burden you that way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shakes his head. “Too bad. I insist.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Ford lets out the smallest of chuckles. “You’ve always been hard-headed. I suppose I can appreciate that when it comes to love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You better appreciate it!” Stan says, in good fun, but a long pause follows. “We better appreciate it. What we’ve got left.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks up at Stan with a smile. “Everyday.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan nods. “Everyday.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The decision to stay on Stan o’ War II is obvious. It’s been home for so long, and the fee to stay in port is much cheaper than rent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Y’know, I thought you’d retire in Florida,” Mabel says, busy with other things because she can never</span>
  <em>
    <span> just</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk on the phone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, Florida’s fine, but it’s not like I’m choosing for me alone,” Stan says. “Poor Ford’s glasses would be fogged up 24/7.” Ford scoffs in the background. “We both wear glasses!” Mabel laughs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And I guess Oregon feels like home.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, it’s better than Jersey.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Antarctica’s better than Jersey, Grunkle Stan.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That gets a big belly laugh out of him—Mabel can always get those. “Well, you’re gonna have to visit sometime Pumpkin! We’ve gone too long without seeing family, let’s make it right.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As soon as we can, promise!” she says. “Speaking of that, I’ve gotta go pick Dip-Dop up from the airport in a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Airport? What’s he been up to?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whaddya think? Paranormal investigation! He doesn’t usually get international calls, but a guy paid him boatloads of cash to go to a haunted house in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cambodia</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Isn’t that crazy?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No kidding! We were there last year, someplace… Sihanouk something-or-other. Long name.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mabel giggles. “Maybe someday we’ll be as well-traveled as you guys!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d bet on it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause before Mabel lets out a small, contented sigh. “Well, I should probably get going—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll let you go. I love—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Grunkle Stan!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, sweetie. Bye-bye.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Bye!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hangs up first, and a moment later, Ford clears his throat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you tell her the, uh. Other news?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan hesitates and shakes his head. “No, I wanted that to be your call.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford nods. “And I appreciate that, though I must admit it seems like an insurmountable obstacle.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a seat next to Ford, who’s still making some attempt at cataloging his specimens despite the rapidly degrading quality of his notes. “The kids love you, anything you say’ll be good enough for them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Certainly good enough for them, but perhaps not good enough for me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan sighs. “This is the last thing I want you to be worried about. You should be enjoying yourself. Instead, you’re worried about making a call and doing busywork. For what? Just to suffer? What about this benefits you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford pauses in his writing, slowly laying down his pen. He watches perfect cursive devolve further into chicken scratch with each page. “It offers some semblance of normalcy as I feel my brain turning to broth.” He slams the notebook shut. “If you’ll excuse me.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan stares after his brother as he stalks out of the room. He can’t blame him, but it still hurts. He rests his head in his crossed arms and vegetates.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s on the top bunk, curled into a ball, staring at his phone. He’s probably the first person to have cracked the screen of a Motorola Razr. He would’ve never gotten a phone if the kids hadn’t finally “gifted,” or rather forced upon him, this dinosaur. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dipper, I have something I need to discuss with you,” he says, not to Dipper, but his undialed number. He shakes his head and sighs. “No, there’s no discussion. It’s simply a statement. Dipper, I have Alzheimer’s dementia… no, no, that’s far too formal. Dipper, I… I…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He screws his eyes shut and calls. Dipper picks up immediately.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford!” he says, tired but thrilled. “I just got home, how’ve you been?”  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford hesitates before responding. “I will admit to you Dipper, not too well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s silence on the other end; Ford can hear Dipper sitting down. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He recalls the events of the previous month or so, but the memories crash together like waves. It’s chaotic. It’s impossible to tell where to begin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford, are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! I, uh,” he stammers. “I’ve been. I’ve been somewhat ill recently. I had a bad cold, some kind of chest infection. It’s thrown me off.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper relaxes. “Yeah, cold &amp; flu season’s a real bummer, isn’t it? I wouldn’t think you’d get hit by it all alone at sea.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A clear memory: The soul-deep cold as his soaking wet robe hangs heavy against him, glasses slick with rain. He shakes his head. “I don’t know how it got me, but it certainly did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sure you’ll get over it before you know it. You’re superhuman for someone your age.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford gives a sad smile. “We all like to think that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be too humble!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“…You know you can tell me anything, right?” It’s the kind of encouragement </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ford</span>
  </em>
  <span> used to give </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a teenager. How the tables have turned. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford nods. “I know that. I would never lie to you.” Lying by omission is a separate matter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For better or for worse, Dipper believes Ford, and they carry on with a rather normal conversation. Dipper tells Ford about Cambodian food. Ford tells Dipper about the pseudo-Yeti they discovered in Hokkaido. They go on and on, and Ford can keep up appearances the whole time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I’ve gotta get off before I fall asleep on the line,” Dipper says with a chuckle, rubbing his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you need your rest,” Ford says. “We both do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Night, Ford.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Dipper.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper hangs up first. Ford stares at the black screen a moment before pulling the blanket over his head with a sigh. He’s still curled up there, fast asleep, when Stan comes in hours later.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he whispers. “You talk to Dipper?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford isn’t quite awake when he mumbles, “What? Of course I did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And you told him?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. “I told him everything.” He’s snoring again within seconds.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan smiles, sad but genuine. “I’m proud of you.” He pats Ford on the shoulder and retires to bed himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For quite some time, Stan would say there are more good days than bad days, and even the bad days aren’t so bad. On the good days, he can shove Ford’s illness to the back of his mind and act like they’re young again—y’know, like, 70? On the bad days, well, they get through it together. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford wouldn’t agree with Stan’s interpretation of the events. Every day his grasp on reality slips further. Pieces of his life float away until his brain’s smooth as rocks in a riverbed. Every loss is a small death, and so many broad swaths were already beyond saving. The doctor had him on drugs to slow the progression, but Ford found it hard to believe they were helpful.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With every setback, there’s something to offset it. Ford starts misplacing not only his belongings but Stan’s. Stan covers the house(boat) in sticky notes denoting where the most basic items go.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford hates himself a little bit more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One day, he forgets a word. He wants something, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> something, all he can remember is that it’s clear. Why does he need it? He’s not sure. It takes five more minutes for the two of them to figure out Ford is </span>
  <em>
    <span>thirsty</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>water</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Stan laughs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hates himself a little bit more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan observes that Ford’s been on the same chapter of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Left Hand of Darkness</span>
  </em>
  <span> for quite some time. With some coaxing, Ford admits that he’s been struggling to read. Stan cheerfully picks up the task, character voices and everything. It’s probably the first time he’s read a book in years. This time, Ford laughs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But he hates himself a little bit more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The shift from good to bad is a subtle one. The further the disease progresses, the less it torments Ford. Eventually, he doesn’t even think about it unless he’s reminded.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This peace-of-mind is not afforded to Stan.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s an otherwise normal day when Stan goes to make a bowl of cereal and discovers all the spoons have disappeared. He searches every corner of the boat before a strange thought crosses his mind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Did Ford take them?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He combs through his brother’s belongings. Within a few minutes, he finds five spoons neatly lined up beneath his pillow. Before he can say “what the hell does he need the spoons for,” he’s struck on the back of the head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No one gave you permission to go through my things!” Ford spits, absolutely furious.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What—you—” Stan snatches up the spoons and shoves them in Ford’s face. “No one gave you permission to take all </span>
  <em>
    <span>these!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Or fucking hit me for that matter!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He growls, pulling the spoons from Stan’s grasp and turning to leave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs. “Ford, we need to eat with those, you can’t—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford turns back to Stan and chucks the handful of spoons at him with intent to maim. Of course, they’re spoons, and he’s a rapidly weakening old man. They don’t make contact, but even the ones that hit the floor feel like bullets in Stan’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He could go after Ford, but he earnestly does not have it in him. He goes back to the kitchen, pours his bowl of cereal into the trash, sits at the table, and cries alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan looks up after God-knows-how-long to see Ford, oblivious to what he’s done. It takes Stan several seconds to respond.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m tired.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you should sleep.” Ford leaves the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan gets back to crying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Several weeks later, he’s on the phone with the kids.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As much as I want to talk all night, you’ve gotta let me off the horn… oh, Ford? I don’t know if he’s, uh, up for talking much. Well, I know—listen, I—okay… okay.” He peeks around the corner. “Ford? Dipper and Mabel are on the phone, they want to talk to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you’d like it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They insist.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford snatches the phone out of Stan’s hand. “Who is this?” Stan cringes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Grunkle Ford, it’s Mabel!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And Dipper. You haven’t called in a while, how’ve you been?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’ve you been?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A brief silence, which Mabel breaks. “Oh, uh, we’ve been fine! Another day, another dollar.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another long pause. “You must be pretty tired,” Mabel continues with an uncomfortable laugh.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She presses on. “Well. Been up to any cool adventures?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” He hands the phone back to Stan and heads for his bed. As soon as he closes the door behind him, Stan sinks into a nearby chair and runs a hand down his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am… </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry about that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have anything to be sorry about!” Mabel insists.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’re just… we’re getting pretty worried.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan nods. “I worry about him too. But the best thing we can do is, y’know. Roll with where he’s at.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The twins give each other a look that means “put a pin in that for later.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re gonna call back soon, okay?” Mabel says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper follows, “And you’ll be fine?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan scoffs. “Of course I’m gonna be fine! What could go wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything goes wrong on a night much like any other. Stan’s washing his hands before heading back to bed. He pauses when he hears an unusual creaking of the floorboards. Turning off the water, he listens closer—the creaking comes again. He isn’t keen on his brother wandering out in the middle of the night. He eases open the bathroom door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford?” He calls into the darkness. It’s darker than usual—not even the hall light’s on. He steps out and sees a shadow dash past. “Ford, is that you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is, Stan finds out, as Ford tackles him to the ground, very much strangling him with a length of fishing line. “You even pretend as if you know me!” Ford says, a maniacal laugh in the back of his throat. “I would know my brother anywhere, and you are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lousy</span>
  </em>
  <span> impersonator.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s eyes and hands dart around the pitch-black room in search of anything that can get him out of this situation. “F-Ford, I’m not—I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> your brother, please,” Stan chokes out. Ford is terrifyingly silent. As he begins seeing stars, he knows things are coming to a head. If it’s Ford or his life… he throws a fist back and feels it make firm contact with glasses. The homemade garrote is dropped and Ford stumbles out onto the deck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, Stan needs time to recuperate. He thumps his chest as he coughs and hacks, gasping for breaths in between. Sweet Moses, how much longer can this go on?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thump he hears outside moments later is as loud as it is distinctly human. The extraordinary pity party he's throwing himself ends as he leaps forward and runs out to the deck. The moon and stars on a cloudless night illuminate the shivering lump on the ground that is Ford.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please tell me you’re okay,” Stan whispers as he rushes to his brother’s side. “Please, please, please, please…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks confused until Stan rolls him onto his back—at that, his expression twists with pain and he cries out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re hurt? Where’re you hurting, Ford?” Stan says. He notices the new crack in his brother’s glasses. He has never felt worse in his life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—I—” A sob interrupts Ford’s speech. He clutches Stan’s shirt. “It hurts.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a shaky breath in. He can’t break down, not right now. “I know it hurts Ford, can you tell me where?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up to Stan, hoping that like many times before, he’ll have the answer. But this time he doesn’t. Ford buries his face in Stan’s chest and sobs again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, y’know what, you don’t have to answer. Don’t worry. I’m gonna make sure you’re alright. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” The words are for himself as much as they are for Ford. He tries to help his brother to his feet, but each attempt is met with a new and unique noise of excruciating pain. He internalizes a groan when he realizes what he’ll have to do. I’m normally not a praying man, but if you’re up there, protect my spinal cord, Superman. He bends down, scooping Ford up in his arms, and it’s… upsettingly easy. Has he been eating enough? A hitch in Ford’s breath reminds Stan that something more important is going on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He walks fast as he can while holding Ford steady as possible and lays him down on the bottom bunk inside. He pulls the blanket up to his chest, and Ford quickly starts to doze. Stan holds his hand when he calls 911, and he doesn’t let go until they’re in the back of an ambulance.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ford is kept in a sort of drug-induced stupor for the next 48 hours, at least until he’s out of surgery. Now he’s got a hip full of screws to match the plate in his skull. Stan stays by Ford’s side every second he can. He’s there when he opens his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Ford!” he says, voice softer than it ever would’ve been when he spoke to his brother, but things have changed. “How’re ya feeling?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks up at Stan, then around the room, and back at Stan. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan repeats, “Are ya feeling okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s gaze drifts off, and this time he doesn’t respond at all. Stan offers a tight-lipped smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m calling the kids. I’ve got this strange feeling you haven’t been entirely honest with them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes remain wandering. Stan pats him on the cheek and steps out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel says, picking up on the third ring. Her voice makes Stan smile, genuinely, for the first time in days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Pumpkin. Your brother there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh? Oh, yeah.” She pulls the phone to her chest. “DIPPER! STAN’S ON THE PHONE!” There are quick footsteps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Grunkle Stan!” Dipper says. “How’ve you been?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, awful,” he answers, immediate and honest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s silence on the other end. “Uh. Why?” Mabel asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Stan takes a deep breath in and out. “Ford’s in the hospital.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mabel lets out a soft “oh no,” and Dipper grabs the phone away. “Whoa whoa whoa, is he okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, yeah, it’s nothing that can’t heal. His brain’s what I’m worried about.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you finally gonna tell us he’s losing his marbles?” Mabel’s surprisingly chipper about the subject. It gets a laugh out of Stan.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was guessing he didn’t tell you,” he sighs, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mabel is silent, and Dipper takes a shaky breath. “Hey, I don’t wanna be too pushy, but, is it okay if we like, come out and—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> it if you came out here.” Stan finishes. “I could… I could use the help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The twins, miniaturized saints that they are, coordinate a plan to drive overnight and arrive by the next morning. Stan thanks them profusely, and they tell him not to worry. He doesn’t cry until they hang up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They ask to see Ford as soon as they step out of the car. Stan barely has time to take their bags in and convince them to drink some water before they insist on leaving. Stan can see unrecognition in Ford’s eyes long before the twins do. He’s become quite accustomed to the expression.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Grunkle Ford!” Mabel says as she comes in. She’s never been happier to see him. He says nothing until she goes to hug him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t touch me,” Ford says, with no ill intent. Mabel takes it like a dagger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry, I guess I should’ve asked,” she says quietly, moving behind her brother. She looks at Stan, who couldn’t be more empathetic. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Ford,” Dipper says, cautious after Mabel’s wonderful experience. “Remember me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford isn’t even looking at him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess it’s been a while. I’m Dipper. I’m your grandnephew.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Ford remembers, but he’s confused, not comforted. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Dipper’s a young man. He’s this tall,” he motions roughly around Dipper’s torso. Yeah, he was probably that tall at some point. When they’d first met. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, like I said. It’s been a while. Guess I’ve grown.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s cautiously convinced. “Big growth spurt,” he mutters. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper allows himself a sensible chuckle at that. “You must be excited to get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford's perplexed, and he spends several seconds looking around the room, contemplating it. All that thought and he only produces a sheepish question. “Where are we?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper bites his lip, digging a thumbnail into his palm before attempting to speak. “We’re. We’re, uh. We’re at the. God,” Dipper hides his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re at the hospital, Ford. You broke your hip.” Stan walks up behind Dipper and gives him a pat on the shoulder—a silent gesture permitting him to give up. Dipper walks out, briefly making eye contact with his sister. Stan pulls up a chair and continues the process of roughly explaining how they’d gotten to where they are.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the drive back, Stan weakly offers, “Wanna talk?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper glances at him, back at the road, and shrugs. “He waited until you had to tell me,” he says, “and now I’m here, and he’s already gone.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan nods. There isn’t much to say about the truth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once they spend any time on Stan o’ War II, it becomes clear a ship that barely supports two cannot support three. “I’m so sorry about this,” Stan says, helping gather the kids’ luggage much sooner than he thought he’d have to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry! We can stay at a motel, there’s a billion out here,” Mabel says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And, uh, this might be a good time to bring up…” Dipper looks around the room. “Do you think </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ford’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> gonna be okay coming back here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a close look himself and gets a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach. “Oh, I… I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought about that.” He leans against the wall and rubs his temple. “When you think it can’t get worse!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, actually—like, Dipper and I were talking, and we were thinking—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What if we find something, y’know, month-to-month rental, ground floor—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We could stick around and help you out!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan blinks a few times, processing the awkward mess of an explanation. When it hits him, it hits him. “No, no, you can’t do that. You’ve got careers you’ve gotta worry about, you’re young, you’re—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mabel is firm in a way she rarely is. “We care a lot about you guys. If we can make it work, we wanna make it work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan tries to form another argument but sputters out. He’s cried for many reasons, but rarely out of a sense of gratitude. He hugs those kids tighter than he’s ever hugged them before and reminds himself to continue doing it often.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Almost done! Thanks for all the feedback, see you soon for the last chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It takes significant legwork, but the Dipper-Mabel-Stan trio secures a suitable living situation mere days before Ford’s release from the hospital. It’s a one-bedroom, sure, but Stan has slept on many couches before—he could handle one more. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Welcome hooome!” Mabel says as she pushes Ford across the threshold. It's a furnished apartment, though they’ve rearranged things—and bought an extra mattress. The wheelchair was also a Craigslist get.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s gaze is fixed on a point unseen—it’s been a while since he cared to examine his environment. He’s less distressed with the unfamiliarity, but the loss is tragic.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This place cleaned up nice.” Dipper looks at Stan with a tentative smile, pleased as can be given the situation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan nods. “Yeah, it did.” He looks around a moment before crouching beside his brother. “Feels nice to be out of an institution, doesn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks at Stan with some interest, but he doesn’t quite understand what’s being asked of him. He leans toward Stan, which he takes as an opportunity to pull him into a hug. Ford closes his eyes and relaxes significantly. That’s what matters. He can be so far away, but he knows that he’s loved, and in a way, he loves back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a constant, conscious effort to find any joy in things. Ford’s declining ability to chew and swallow is Mabel’s opportunity to be the human smoothie bar she’s fantasized about. “If I had to eat mush, I’d rather eat really tasty mush.” And she’s right! She makes delicious smoothies. Everyone loves them, Ford in particular.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s harder for others to find joy in things. Dipper is sitting with Ford, tenderly flipping through the delicate Journal 3. He can still hear Ford’s voice in his head, but would it always be so clear? He doesn’t know how long it’s been before he looks up and sees that Ford is awake, and alert—he’s looking at the journal.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper hesitates before holding up the cover. “You recognize this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks at it a moment longer before looking at Dipper. His expression shifts, but Dipper can’t read it. Still, he has the heart to ask, “Do you recognize me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford grasps for a name to put to this face, but such things are few and far between now. He frowns. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s no big deal,” Dipper lies, having learned that pushing the issue is no help—though he has an idea. “Here, maybe this’ll refresh your memory.” He flips through pages a moment before settling on a familiar image of himself, heart rate off the charts. He can’t help but laugh. “You wrote this about me a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> time ago.” He clears his throat and continues.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Observations: Constantly sweating… Fidgeting suggests he may still be recovering from shock of portal contact… Very thin limbs. Almost noodle-y... Rank odor...” There’s a long pause before he continues, and when he does, there’s a sense of nostalgia. “Refused to take off his hat.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He glances at Ford, who looks back at him with a great interest he hasn’t shown in ages. Dipper smiles optimistically. “That ring any bells?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford keeps looking at him but doesn’t care much about the question. He’s expectant. He wants him to keep reading.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, well, uh. You did write a little more about me,” he thumbs only a few pages forward. Even on a cursory glance, this page is more worn than others—it’s been dog-eared, even. Dipper doesn’t speak right away, just looks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t mean this lightly when I say I was floored by what I saw. Instead of the aimless aggression of a typical adolescent, I discovered the same obsession with the supernatural as myself. Page after page, I read on as he navigated beasts, evaded villains, defeated ghosts, and even took down a Gremloblin. Sure, he’s rough around the edges and… prone to romantic distraction. But he possesses bravery, cleverness, imagination, and drive far beyond his years. More surprising still, he has a birth deformity, just like me! To say that I felt like I was reading about a younger version of myself is an understatement. I always thought I was the odd member of the family, but perhaps I truly have found a kindred spirit.” His voice shakes. “I presumed there was no one on this Earth who I could consider an ally and a friend. I may have been wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He rubs his eyes and sniffles but doesn’t burst into tears. When he looks up, he realizes Ford’s attention was lost some time ago. It’s bittersweet, but he doesn’t resent it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to remember all this. In the grand scheme of things I guess I didn’t take up a huge part of your life.” Dipper sets the book down next to Ford and picks up his hand, laying it across the matching print on the cover. Ford looks down at the journal, then to Dipper, who continues. “If you don’t remember me, or Mabel, or even Stan, I hope you remember yourself. That there’s bits and pieces up there that still spell out Ford Pines.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford echoes back, “Ford Pines,” though it’s mumbled and hoarse. There’s a difference between speaking and knowing what you’re saying, but hearing the words brings a rush of that rare feeling. Happiness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. You’re Ford Pines. You’re my great uncle, and the smartest guy I’ve ever met. You’re the reason I’m who I am today.” He leans in and kisses Ford on the temple, who smiles and closes his eyes. “That’s how I’ll always remember you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Weeks pass and even Stan accepts that things aren’t improving. He had a fantasy of Ford walking again. In reality, sitting becomes a challenge. More and more often, Ford’s day is spent in bed. It’s mid-afternoon on one of those days when Stan walks by and notices him grimacing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey Sixer, you need something?” He approaches the bedside and touches Ford’s cheek. The affectionate gesture grows serious as he moves his hand across Ford’s forehead. He’s burning up. Putting an ear to his chest, he can hear deep wheezing, as if every breath takes more effort than the one before it. He doesn’t need another red flag.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going back to the hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an infection in his lungs. Nothing inherently deadly, but something people in Ford’s condition don’t tend to survive. “You haven’t met my brother,” Stan says with a confident laugh. He looks at the kids. They’re uncomfortably quiet. He returns the silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s decline is precipitous. He barely reacts now, little more than visible discomfort when the nurses poke and prod him. His breathing becomes more labored, treatments going from respite to necessity. Occasionally he’ll jolt as if something’s scared him with no clear source. Stan can only hope such fear is quickly forgotten. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No matter what happens, there’s always company. They rotate taking night shifts at Ford’s bedside. It’s often a fruitless task, but no one can bear the thought of him waking up confused and alone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One night, Ford has been crying for hours. Everyone gives their all to help, but how could they communicate what was wrong, let alone a solution? When Stan steps out into the hall, he can hear Dipper on the phone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t take it anymore. I seriously cannot fucking take it anymore. I’m at my limit.” His voice is high and panicked. He lets out a few small sobs, then goes quiet. It’s a while before he says, with as much shame as there is honesty, “I hope he dies soon.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan goes back inside.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>48 hours later, they’re having a silly argument. No one wants silence, so Stan insists on explaining football. Dipper and Mabel are about to incite a riot when,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look who’s awake!” Mabel says, striding up to Ford’s bedside and leaning over the railing. Dipper and Stan follow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks up at her, and for the first time in so long, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiles.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There’s a collective gasp. He reaches up to her, and she takes his hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure are excited to see me today,” she says, beaming to match Ford. He pulls his hand away from her’s, instead grabbing the sleeve of her sweater. It’s soft, and he rubs the fabric between his fingers for a few seconds before looking back at her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mabel!” His voice is weak but ecstatic, and she’s almost-literally floored. She covers her mouth to quiet a sob. Dipper and Stan only stare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know me?” she says, holding Ford’s face in both her hands. “Do you know how much I love you?” His response is unclear, but he stays smiling, eyes locked with hers. She bends down and kisses his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes wander to the right, and Dipper steps forward, clearing his throat as he waves to get his attention. It doesn’t come to him immediately, or completely, but he gets much closer than he has in ages. He points at Dipper—more specifically, his birthmark. “Friend?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper’s lip sure as hell quivers, but he doesn’t cry—not yet anyway. He rushes in and wraps Ford in a tight hug. The warmth of genuine happiness flows through them both. Nothing needs to be said. By the time he frees Ford from his grasp, Stan’s been hovering for quite some time. Dipper steps out of the way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At first, Ford’s unsure. He reaches out a hand and Stan allows him to touch his face. Ford grasps at Stan’s jaw, then his own. When it hits him, he’s in awe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hero.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan, usually a glutton for praise, struggles with the whole “hero” thing. He’s never seen himself as much of one, but Ford insisted on rubbing the success in. Of course, it had been ages since that last happened—until now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stan wraps his hand around Ford’s and squeezes tight. Ford offers the faintest squeeze back. “Thanks, Sixer,” Stan is finally able to choke out, his voice tightrope tense. “I’m… I’m glad I got to be that for you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks between his guests, unable to process how much it means to be with these people at a time like this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A time like this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On a biological level, he’s aware that he’s dying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He allows his head to sink further into his pillow, eyes easing shut. He feels hands grabbing at his, and the voices of his guests. They’re panicked as if something is wrong, but they keep saying I love you, I love you, I love you. That’s what he listens to. That’s what’s going through his mind as a deep chill runs through his body like he’s been beckoned into a cold night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wherever he goes next, he wants it to be warm.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! All comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Make sure to grab your complimentary tissue box on the way out.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is already finished, I'll try and update it twice a week. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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